


Into Something Good

by Unforth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bartender Castiel (Supernatural), Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean Winchester, Condoms, Construction Worker Dean Winchester, Edging, First Meetings, Fluff and Smut, Gay Bar, Handkerchief Code, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Cross-dressing, New York City, Period-Typical Homophobia, Top Castiel (Supernatural), mentions of aids, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 15:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19176082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: Cas has been ogling the sexy construction worker flashing a blue bandana in his back right pocket for months. Today, Cas decides to find out if the guy knows what that bandana is advertising.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I go to Pride and see the old queers I want to write stories set in the 80s with a happy ending. This year, I finally actually wrote the thing.
> 
> There is a little homophobic language and some period-typical homophobic languages. Mentions of prostitution. There's mention of bad past lives and anxiety about STDs and various sad 1980s New York City queer things. But Dean and Cas find each other and all is well.

Blue bandana was back.

Every day since the road work on 11th had started - months ago, typical fricken NYC DOT efficiency - he'd been out there. Walking. Digging. Jackhammering, and wasn't that fucking suggestive enough to give Cas an erection. Always, always, with that blue bandana dangling out of his back pocket. 

His right back pocket.

_ Always _ his right back pocket.

Blue bandana took the cloth, wiped the sweat from his brow, and stuffed the bandana back in his right back pocket, tuft swaying and shimmying and taunting Cas with every shift of that shapely, damn near perfect ass.

Hell, Cas was  _ drooling _ .

"Give it a rest," said Samandriel, rolling his eyes and holding out his glass for a refill. Tearing his eyes from tall, dark, sweaty, clueless and certainly straight, Cas snagged the glass, gave it a quick rinse in the sink, and topped it off from the house brew tap. "Ogling will get you nowhere."

"...Are you suggesting I approach him?" Cas glanced out the window. The road crew had a half dozen men, some of whom had changed over the weeks, but blue bandana appeared to be in charge, and he was always there - arriving before Cas got to work opening The Sink Hole at 10 AM, leaving precisely at the union-mandated 5 PM. Always there, always breathtakingly hot, always flaunting that damn blue bandana.

Grab. Swipe. Wipe. And back into the pocket.

"Oh, yeah, that'd be brilliant." Samandriel rolled his eyes  _ again _ as Cas slid the beer down the bar poorly enough that it would have toppled to the ground if Samandriel hadn't caught it. "If you want to get called faggot while that whole crew kicks the shit outta you. Guy like that? There's no way that he knows what that bandana means to folks like us. He'd burn the fucking thing, and use it to light this whole building up, if he heard a damn whisper of what we think when we look at him."

It was easy for Samandriel, 19, midwest bred, openly flaming drag queen with a permanent streak of timidity beaten into him, to talk about the dangers of approaching strange men. But this was New York City. This was 1989. This was the Village. It was a far cry from where Samandriel was raised, or where Cas was raised for that matter.

Grab. Swipe. Wipe. And back into the pocket.

...okay, yeah, Cas might get a slur or six hurled his way.

But beaten up?

Unlikely, unless the DOT wanted the local queers to launch a counterattack that would become the stuff of legends.

The city sweltered, sweat melting off every brow. The bar's AC was chronically inadequate, but it was still cooler within that it must be without. Waves of heat blurred off the black top, radiating up amidst the stompy boots the road crew wore. Blue bandana's hair was a disheveled mess of wet strands, curling at the ends. His cheeks were ruddy from long hours in the sun, flushed with exertion, shimmering with the water he poured over himself in a vain effort to cool off. His shirt was sweat-plastered to his torso, revealing every fine muscle of his broad shoulders, the shapely curve of his waist, the fricken mathematically perfect dip of his lower back rising into his jean-clad ass. Wetness soaked the crotch of his pants, darkened the denim behind his knees. And his damn bandana dangled in his back pocket, damp with sweat from his brow, dark blue, a bobbling flag that screamed to every gay in the Village, "please fuck me in the ass."

_ What if it's not a mistake?  _

Cas wanted so. damn. badly. to give that gorgeous man what he was asking for.

_ What if he knows  _ exactly  _ what he's offering, and we've all been too chicken shit to approach him? _

"I'm gonna do it," Cas announced, slapping the rag he used to clean down onto the worn bar counter.

"Cheers," Samandriel saluted, raising his glass. Cas quirked an eyebrow at him. "To your funeral," he explained, draining the glass until only the foamy head remained at the bottom. Cas casually flipped him the bird as he circled the bar and beelined out the door.

Grab. Swipe. Wipe. And back into the pocket.

Stepping outside was like walking into a steam room, though not a quarter so sexy as the last time Cas went to a public bathhouse. Humidity beaded sweat over Cas' torso, formed a stippling of dark spots over his plain, faded black shirt.

"Hey," Cas snapped, interrupting blue bandana as he used something loud and bulky to flatten shiny black pebbles into asphalt. There was no reaction. "HEY!"

The machine shut off.

Grab. Swipe. Wipe. And back into the pocket.

Blue bandana turned around with a resigned, fixed expression on his handsome face. "No, I don't know when we'll be done." Hell, even his voice was fricken sin on wheels, gruff and wrecked by hard work and thirst, sending a shiver down Cas' spine. "Yes, I get paid to make your life - yes, you  _ personally _ \- a living hell. Fuck no, you can't park here. Does that cover your questions?"

"Do you know what that means?" Cas demanded, gesturing at the taunting blue dangling just visible around the man's hips.

"If I don't...?" There was a challenge in that voice now, matched by a raised eyebrow and a flash of passion in bright, pale eyes.

"A hapless son of a bitch like you should know what he's advertising." The sexual frustration that had propelled Cas from the bar, put him in full-on angry confrontation mode - unconsciously expecting the worst, he realized belatedly - calmed in the face of blue bandana's behavior. The road crew got off shift around the same time the queens arrived on a Friday night. Blue bandana must know that The Sink Hole was a queer bar, and his intense gaze now flicked between Cas and the bar, clearly associating the two. 

_ Has he been eyeing me as long as I’ve been eyeing him?  _

That blue bandana wasn't already hurling insults was a good sign.

Grab. Swipe. Wipe. And back into the pocket.

An  _ excellent  _ sign.

"...and if I  _ do  _ know what it means?" asked blue bandana slyly.

_ Oh yeah. I am in like Flynn. _

"Well, then, you know where to find me," Cas said flippantly, swaggering back into the bar with a broad grin and the same over-emphasized sway he used when he walked the stage in full drag. Ducking behind the bar once more, he chanced a look out the dirty bar window. 

Blue bandana stood beside his noisy machine, unmoving, staring at the door in...bemusement?...until a slow smile spread over his face. He shook his head, smearing sweaty locks over his forehead, then turned back to his job.

Grab.

Swipe.

Wipe.

And back into the pocket.

And a suggestive shimmy toward of the bar window.

"Hey, Samandriel, how do you feel about picking up a shift behind the bar tonight…?"


	2. Chapter 2

Samandriel drove a hard bargain, demanding the usual rate plus a weekend with Cas' favorite wig and best corset, but the deal was sealed with a hand shake and Cas was scott free for whenever blue bandana finally put in an appearance. Throughout the afternoon, every glance and gesture that caught the corner of Cas’ eye through the window had seemed like a suggestion, but 5 PM had come and gone, the DOT crew had come and gone, and Cas had neither come nor gone, and he was getting grouchy.

"Yo," said the unfamiliar voice of a customer approaching the bar.

"What?" Cas snapped, rounding on whoever the hell it was, and froze.

Oh.

_ Ohhh _ .

Blue bandana cleaned up  _ nice _ .

An easy smile graced his dark tanned cheeks, a smattering of freckles visible even in the low bar light. His hair was spiked and still damp, though Cas thought that was probably product, or a recent shower, or both. No more sweat and road filth shadowed his features, and Cas was both impressed and disappointed.

_ It's no biggie though...as hot as tonight is? As hot as  _ he  _ is? Getting him sweaty again will be a piece of cake. _

All the regulars checked out the new arrival, few bothering with subtlety, giving appreciative looks to that fine ass. The blue bandana still flew the man's freak flag. A burst of unwarranted possessiveness had Cas flexing and glaring at some of his best customers. Blue bandana chuckled.

_ Fuck _ , if Cas' lifestyle was a sin, as his family thought, that laugh was his hand basket straight to hell without a trace of good intentions paving the way. 

"Dean," the man said, suave smile accompanying a hand offered for a shake over the bar. 

"Cas," he replied, mouth dry.

"So…” Dean looked around, turning down several suggestive looks with a single shake of his head. “Can you blow this popsicle stand or do I have to hang out ‘til last call?"

"I can blow so much more than popsicle stands," Cas said, licking his lips, as if Dean could possibly miss his innuendo - but he'd spent months lusting after the construction worker and damn if he was gonna let a single hint get missed.

"I'm gonna consider that a promise," Dean laughed.  _ I am so getting laid tonight _ . "Your place or mine?"

"I live over the bar," said Cas, gesturing toward the ceiling.

"Wish I'd known that before I went all the way home to take a damn shower."

"You are welcome to use my shower any time...Dean..." Cas tried the name out, sampled it, rolled it around his mouth, prepared himself to shout it mid-coitus.

"Whoa now, a bj is de rigeur but shower privileges?" Another criminally hot chuckle, and hell if Cas wasn't getting hard in his damn work slacks. "Better be ready to put your money where your mouth is, big boy..."

That gave Cas pause. Bringing up money...with most potential partners, that would suggest they were, despite all the evidence to the contrary, a rent boy - weird, for someone with a steady union city job, and not what Cas was looking for, and not what the bandana was advertising. Hookers flew green. Cas wasn’t one to judge how any moonlighted, and he usually looked the other way when people hustled or solicited at his bar. He'd gotten, and paid, enough tickets from the NYPD to prove it. For his own partner, though? A denial was on his lips, disappointment clenched in his chest as he prepared to tell Dean thanks, but no thanks. But Dean smiled good naturedly, eyed Cas expectantly, looked around the bar as if trying to figure out where the stairs to upstairs were, ignored the catcalls - some suggestions to Dean, some more observant commenting on Cas cutting them all out - and in no way seemed to anticipate a pay day.

Just an idle comment then, from someone less experienced than his bandana choice might suggest.

Every damn minute made Dean more alluring.

"What makes you so sure I'm big?" Cas replied finally with a lewd wink, passing his apron over to a grumbling Samandriel.

"Wishful thinking," acknowledged Dean with a half shrug. "Can't blame a bitch for hoping. Are you saying you're not?” His eyes were fixed on Cas’ crotch as Cas raised the counter to exit the bar. “That’s spiff too. I'm not above giving two inch Ted a ride, if that's the best on offer...or, I'm not below giving him a ride, if that's his...your...you know, the preference."

Every damn  _ minute  _ made Dean more alluring. And hell, the mouth on him - in every sense of the word. Cas quirked an eyebrow.

"That sounded cooler in my head," admitted Dean, blushing.

Fucking.  _ Blushing _ .

_ Aw hell, and he's adorable. _

Every. damn. minute. made Dean more alluring.

_ I'm screwed. _

_ Or, like, he's screwed. _

_ But...yeah. _

"Look, are we gonna do this or what?" Dean was brilliant red. A regular perched on a barstool broke into helpless laughter, smacking the bar counter watching them.

_ We’re screwed together. Mutually screwed. Screwer and screwee. _

"Yes," said Cas slowly. "Dean..." he sampled the name again. Delectable, as the rest of the man was delectable. "Let's do this."

The hubbub of the bar enveloped Cas as he led the way to the door. Dean had given Cas one hell of a show - for months, and semi-intentionally, Cas was coming to believe, for while Dean didn't know Cas was watching (or did hi?) his behavior suggested he sure as shit was hoping  _ someone  _ was watching. Cas did what he could to return the favor. He raked a hand through his hair, with a single swipe transforming it from work formal, swept back and clean, to artistically sloppy bed head. Dodging through the crowd, he sashayed, hips swaying, with all the swank he could muster. Friends and regulars called to him, asking where he was heading, cracking dirty jokes, asking if he was playing waiter. A couple ass pinches marked appreciation that he could have done without; he'd have to remind the bouncers to nip that kinda behavior in the bud, as it were. 

Inside the barroom was sweltering, air hardly shifted by the HVAC system, people packed in close, dancing and drinking to the canned music. Later in the night there'd be a drag show, live music, and a lot of sex in the bathroom. Most folks seemed to assume that Cas was ducking out to get dressed for the show. He hadn't done much drag since he bought the joint, he was way too busy for mascara, but he still dipped a toe in occasionally. This was Cas’ place, Cas’ scene, and Cas rarely took time for himself, preferring to work, preferring the safety his position afforded him. Probably why so few realized Dean was shadowing him - Cas glanced over his shoulder periodically to be sure Dean was still there. 

Grab. Swipe. Wipe. And back into the pocket. And a cocky grin and wink to Cas.

It wasn’t like Cas to go up for a one night stand with a random hook up.

_...maybe Dean isn’t a random hook up… _

He had a feeling it wasn’t like Dean, either.

_...maybe this won’t just be a one night stand... _

Stepping out into the sultry New York City night traded one chaotic scene for another. People, many well past three sheets to the wind, stumbled down the narrow Village sidewalks. Car headlights glared off the glass of closed shops and barred brownstone windows. Horns beeped, brakes screeched, people shouted, music thumped. In the distance, sirens spoke to someone's night going to shit. No breeze stirred the night; with the sun down, the temperature had dropped, and smog settled miasmic over the sidewalk. Cas wrinkled his nose, sidestepping to avoid something best left unidentified, and ducked into the narrow entryway beside the bar, where a door with an impressive array of locks blocked the stairs to his apartment. Cas made quick work of the locks, quick work of the stairs, a sense of peace settling over him as the door clanged shut behind Dean.

_...every relationship starts somewhere... _

The stairs were old and worn, the paint on the walls peeling, the windows grimy. Cas had plans for the building, but there was never enough time, never enough money, and the place languished.

"It's not much," Cas called down to Dean, "but it's home."

"It's awesome," and hell if Dean didn't sound like he meant it, a hint of awe, a splash of envy, a heavy dose of appreciation on his face as he watched Cas' ass sway up the stairs.

"You must live in a pig sty," laughed Cas. 

The echo of a deep voice on bare plaster walls suggested a reply, but Dean was cut off as the reached the second door at the top of the stairs, this one sealed by only a single lock. Cas threw it open and, with a grandiose gesture, swept Dean into his apartment. It was tiny, pokey, floor and walls thumping with the bass of the music playing in the bar below. The best feature was a large picture window with a sliding door leading out onto a broad, airy patio. Once upon a time, the patio had been part of the bar, but using the space that way required special permits and that minimum safety standards be met and that fees be paid, and in the end it was more trouble than it was worth. Now it was Cas' garden, his refuge as the bar and apartment never could be, and too personal to share with Dean.

Yet.

"Kitchen," Cas said unnecessarily. "Bathroom." The apartment was a studio. "TV." Standing by the doorway, everything was in sight. "Bedroom." With an approving hum, Dean meandered a curved line toward the bed, running a hand over the clean countertops. At least the place was neat. Cas barely had time to live in it, much less make a mess.

"So...how you wanna do this?" asked Dean.

"Blue bandana..." Uncertainty tinged Cas' voice. Had he somehow completely misunderstood what was to come?

"Oh, definitely, your dick, my ass, main event," Dean reassured him. Cas huffed a relieved breath, and Dean laughed. "But like...you wanna do coffee? Small talk? Foreplay? Or should we just get banging?"

Cas' concerns deepened, though they should have alleviated. He was a fucking moron. He should have asked in the first place... "Well, condom, or get out."

"Condom," agreed Dean decisively. Cas stress dissipated instantly and he grinned, easy, comfortable, ready. "Fuck, yeah, condom. I brought a couple just in case."

"A couple? Expecting a long night?"

Dean's answer was to stride across the room and drop suggestively onto the bed, arms under his shoulders to hoist his head up, knees up and spread, feet on the edge of the bed. Black denim spread taut over his crotch, emphasized the bulge of his dick, and Cas was moving before he formed a conscious thought. In the yellowed light of his apartment, Dean was even more gorgeous than he'd been doing road work. His lips were pink and plush, his eyelashes astonishingly long, and as Cas climbed atop him, took a comfortable position between those amazing bowed legs, he saw Dean's eyes finally, a spectacular, deep golden green, staring a challenge at Cas.

Leaning in, closer, closer, Dean's musk was heady, his sweat alluring, his sun-touched skin tempting. Cas stopped so close to Dean's face that he could breathe in Dean's exhales and coat his taste buds in leather and cigarette smoke and manliness. 

"Kisses okay?" Cas asked, husky and low.

"Not on the mouth," answered Dean. 

Instantly obedient, Cas shifted left and rubbed his nose over the curve of Dean's neck. 

"Sorry, dude, but can't be too careful." 

Laving his tongue over the skin, Cas sampled Dean’s flavor. Salty sour sweat dissipated over his tongue, suffused his nose. 

Dean gasped out, "I like being not dead." 

Shifting, kissing, licking, Cas sucked, shivering at the thought of that gorgeous man, no bandana to be seen, hickey prominent on his neck when he returned to work on Monday. Claimed. 

"And no marks!"

Cas tsked a disappointed sound but again obeyed. Maybe, someday, they'd know each other well enough to take more chances.

_ Maybe...someday?  _

Nuzzling aside the collar of Dean's shirt, Cas painted a line of kisses down Dean's clavicle. His fingers worked at the buttons of Dean's shirt, revealing stretches of pale skin, fuzzy with pale hair, toned and muscular, heady and delicious.

_ It’s way too soon to be thinking about any sort of someday. _

Pink nipple beckoned Cas on; he arched his back, bent his head, took Dean into his mouth and licked the flesh taut. Dean leaked the sweetest noises, wrapping a leg around Cas' ass, urging him down as Dean's hips shifted up. Their crotches came together, half-hard dicks rubbing. Pleasure, crystal clear, heavy as the music enveloping them, flittered through Cas' limbs.

_ It's always too soon for someday, for anyone, but especially for men like us. We're doomed, every damn one of us, but we can at least enjoy the journey... _

Dean's head dropped down to the bed, shaking the mattress so suddenly that Cas lost his balance and his lips ripped free of Dean's breast. Fumbling hands grabbed at the bottom of Cas' shirt, and then they were both moving, both sitting up, working in shockingly perfect tandem to remove shirts, undo belts, get out dicks.

_...and while I don't know him well yet, he's funny, he's sweet, he's the handsomest piece of ass I've ever seen, he seems in to me...that's a better start than a lot of couples I've known… _

Nails skimmed down Cas' chest, a hand clutched his head, and Dean pulled Cas back down to his other nipple. Cas groaned, adoring the enthusiasm, struggling to loosen Dean's pants.

The belt came loose.

The button opened.

Dean hefted his hips to let Cas pull the jeans down and over his ass.

Cas' fingers skimmed rough lace and smooth silk.

With a gasp, Cas tore aware, leaning up, ignoring as Dean half-sat in pursuit of the mouth so abruptly removed. His gaze raked down Dean's gorgeous torso, the lines of every muscle prominent in the awkward, partially risen position, belly concave, trail of curled strands thickening only to disappear beneath...

Panties.

Pink lacy panties.

Fucking  _ amazing _ panties, straining to contain an equally amazing hard dick, prominently outlined against the fabric.

Dean settled back on his elbows and grinned, cocky and confident with the faintest, most beautiful hint of vulnerability in the tightness of his eyes and the furrows of his brow. 

"This okay, Cas?"

"Yes," Cas said reverently. Reaching down, he skimmed a finger over the delicate satin and the hardness it scarce concealed. Erection bucked beneath his touch, stretching the elastic, digging lace into Dean's shapely thighs. "This is...very good."

"Awesome," Dean breathed, letting his head drop back, his worried skin smoothing to calmness.

"I like this very much," murmured Cas. Sliding from the edge of the bed, his knees scraped on the worn wooden floor, his face so close to Dean's crotch he could smell his tang. He wanted to inhale it, smoke it like a cigarette, bath in it like a damn hot tub of sexiness. He nuzzled forward, relishing the scent, adoring the deep, manly, delicate sounds Dean leaked. "I better..." Thoughts were hard to hold onto with Dean's manhood flush against his nose. Cas mouthed at the fabric, tasting sweat, tasting early release, tasting the promise of ecstasy to come. "...I need to...get a thing."

"Yeah...yeah, you do that."

It felt like tearing a Goddamn limb off to make himself rise, circle to his nightstand, withdraw a pack of condoms and a tube of lubricant. By the time he got back, Dean had kicked aside his jeans and shoes, thrown his shirt to the side of the bed, and was struggling to use his toes to remove his socks. Cas laughed.

"Not sexy?" asked Dean sheepishly.

"So sexy," Cas disagreed, and fuck if he didn't mean it. It was natural, human; he was so used to the practiced attempts at perfection that the men who flirted at the bar affected. They were nice enough, fun for a night or two, but they weren't real, what he shared with them wasn't real and they could never share a relationship because there nothing true between them.

Dean was  _ real _ , authentic, fricken full-on Disney “true as it can be,” and Cas wanted to fricken eat him alive.

Dropping once more between Dean's legs, Cas spared Dean further embarrassment by tugging his socks off for him, then he opened the first condom, rolled it over two of his fingers, and coated the rubber with lube. He looked up to find Dean staring down at him, propped on his elbows once more, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and glimmering in the low light.

"Are you ready?" asked Cas. 

Dean nodded fervently, dropping his head back again. Cas used his other hand to tug the crotch of the panties out of the way and carefully, slowly, slid the condomed fingers into Dean's body. A groan tore free of Dean, his hips shimmying forward to the edge of the bed, urging Cas deeper. Desire fired hot and icy cold through Cas' body, like he was doused by cosmopolitans and Irish breakfast by turns. Closing his eyes, working by feel and instinct, Cas leaned in, kissed at the satin, and learned Dean's insides as he hoped to, someday, learn Dean's outside.

_...because maybe...someday... _

Dean's hole was tight, though his muscles were relaxed such that Cas knew this was far from Dean’s first rodeo. The flesh within was bumpy, firm yet giving as Cas pressed, explored, stimulated, teased. Dean grunted, groaned, squeaked out a drawn-out moan as Cas found his prostate and rubbed hard. Cas’ lips worked over the covered head of Dean's cock. He was flirting close to dangerous territory, shouldn't get any of Dean's fluids in his mouth, but fuck if he didn't want to taste, to savor, to relish, to worship. Cas' dick stuck out heavy from his unzipped fly, bare, ready, aching. As minimal as his effort was, sweat beaded on Cas' brow and blood thudding more loudly in his ears than the drum solo of whatever was playing in the bar.

Desire heated Cas like a fever, even hotter than summer in the city. Dean mumbled incoherent encouragement, a pleading whine twisting the unknown words. Cas could hardly believe he was gone so quickly, that both of them were so gone. He never drank when he was tending bar, but he was intoxicated on musk and dick and pink satin and sweaty skin and the magic of the New York night and utterly inappropriate, utterly inescapable nascent hope.

_ We've never even had a conversation. Get a hold of yourself, Cas, and-- _

"Fuck me," Dean gasped, pivoting up so hard he pulled Cas' fingers from his ass. "Do it, please - it's been so long, Cas--"

"Castiel," he barked, rising, incapable of denying Dean what he begged for. He peeled the lubey condom from his fingers, grabbed another, unwrapped it, and rolled it down his dick.

"What?"

Even the faint pressure of his own hand on sensitive flesh was nigh unbearable. Every urge screamed to stroke, to thrust, to bury himself in friction and lose his mind on bliss. 

"My full name. That's what I want you to scream when I make you come," Cas growled. A splurt from the lube tube saw his cock coated; he lined up with Dean’s slickened pucker, pulling the panties aside so roughly that they scored red lines into Dean's thighs, and pushed in.

"O--"

Whatever Dean had been about to say was lost in an unearthly, sublime groan. Cas wasn't sure if the sound came from Dean, from himself, or if it was the unique, gorgeous, filthy duet they created together. Cas was big, at least compared to average, but Dean spread around him easily, relaxed, tight, and hot. Cas stood, Dean's legs spread around him, Dean's ass lined up with the edge of the bed, and pressed in until Dean encompassed him completely. The panties strained to contain Dean, strained to contain them both, snagging and teasing at Cas' balls as he drew back. It was impossible not to stare down at where they were joined, at where his flushed, condom-clad dick slid within Dean's stretched hole, at where the stained pink fabric brought glamor to the obscene.

"Please..." 

_ Oh right. Less staring. More fucking.  _

Setting a hand on each of Dean's raised knees, Cas dropped his head back, sweaty strands tickling the base of his neck. He closed his eyes. He pushed into Dean's welcoming body. And he  _ felt _ .

The muscular ring of Dean's anus, pressing against him, rubbing along his length with every slow thrust in and teasing pull out.

The fabric of the satin growing sodden, sticking to their bodies, reminding Cas gloriously with every tug that this spectacular man had dared to come to their first liaison in panties.

The sweat beading down Cas' spine, oozing down this back, soaking the waist of his pants.

The twitch of Dean around him, the shiver of Dean's knees beneath his fingers.

The smell of sex heavy in the stagnant air, so thick in Cas' nose it was hard to breathe.

The bass rumbling through the floorboards, rumbling through Cas' soul, somehow always in perfect tempo to the grunts and groans and stuttering moans that Dean leaked into the apartment as they made music with their joined bodies. 

The city was alive in the apartment, alive in Dean and Cas, and Cas was alive, thoroughly, profoundly, as he couldn't remember being in ages.

Why the fuck had he waited so long to ask Dean to bang?

Desperation increasingly tinged Dean's voice as Cas stayed erect and maintained the same stately pace. His noises pleaded, wordless but unmistakable, for more, but Cas need only pry his eyes open and glance down the flushed length of his torso to where his dick disappeared into Dean's ass to remind himself why he moved slowly. Even with gentle strokes, the risk of a tear to Dean's delicate skin was great. They couldn't risk blood flowing, blood mingling. Cas was clean...thought he must be clean...was sure he'd have experienced the worst by now if he  _ wasn't _ clean...but they'd all lost too many friends and too much innocence to take chances. It was a sobering thought, an unarousing thought, but a single clench of Dean around him, urging Cas deeper, obliterated his sobriety, intoxicated him once more on the scrumptious man beneath him, so far beneath him...

...too far beneath him…

Cas leaned forward, pushing himself in as he moved, and pressed his chest to Dean's. Dean groaned, welcoming him, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Their bodies slid together, sweat slicking their chests. Dean's hips pivoted up to meet Cas' down strokes. The rush of Dean's exhales were loud in his ear, consuming Cas' awareness as Dean's hungry hole gorged on Cas' dick. His vision of the room, of the past, dissolved into motes of light, all gold and green like Dean's expressive eyes. 

"This is good," rasped Dean, blissed out and vague. "Tell me this is good."

"So good," Cas agreed, rubbing his sweaty brow against Dean's neck. He turned his head back again, helpless to stop the movement as he rocked and rocked and rocked into Dean's body. His lips smeared where his head had been and he tasted them mingled, delighted in the salt of sweat layered on sweat layered on the soap Dean had used layered on the fetor of Dean's day spent working on the road. Ambrosia, divine, delicious, sating. 

"Never this good, Dean."

"Never."

"Oh, fuck," Cas moaned. He needed to move, to thrust, to take...he needed to not hurt his bottom, his blue bandana, his Dean. He needed--

\--needed--

"Come on," Dean urged, working up from the bed more urgently, setting a harder pace for all Cas could do to keep his thrust gentle. "Come on, Cas."

\-- _ needed _ \--

"Dean!" Tears flooded his eyes. Emotion flooded his body. Need and pressure, bliss and sorrow, rapture and desire, mixed together, crashed in his gut and drove him higher. He shook with self restraint, but couldn't stop the snap of his hips to bury himself again and again in Dean's perfect tightness.

"Let it go," Dean urged. Nails tickled at Cas back, dug into his flesh, and Cas bucked forward hard, shapeless noise torn from him.

"Fuck," Cas sobbed, thrusting forward, "fuck, Dean," another thrust, "fuck," thrust, "fuck," thrust, "fuck," thrust, "fu--" and with a choking gasp, he stuffed Dean so full that they slid up the mattress, and he filled the condom.

Tears joined the sweaty smears pungent on Dean's shoulder as Cas twitched and shook and rocked through his climax. He felt good, sweetly, ecstatically, sublimely good. He wanted to collapse, deflate; it was all he could do not to flatten Dean into the old, kinked bed springs with his weight. Heavy as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, light as a feather that would whisk away if not for the humid New York City night weighing him down, he flopped to the side. Dean squawked and flailed as Cas pulled from his body and accidentally wrenched his leg. The sound pulled Cas from himself, returned him to the room and the music and the city melting toward midnight. He opened his eyes, regretted the musty dusty smell of the blanket coating his nose and replacing Dean's scent, and looked to wear his partner lay.

Dean's eyes were on him, wide, pupils huge and black and lost. His hair was matted down with sweat, his lips swollen where his teeth had played at them, his cheeks flushed. Freckles dotted his torso, haloed speckles around his tight, perky nipples. His cock bulged against the soaked panties. His lips mouthed an unmistakable plea, and Cas smiled.

Because he felt amazing.

Because Dean was beyond the most gorgeous person he'd ever seen, the most gorgeous person he'd ever conceived of.

Because Dean needed him, and Cas knew what he needed, and Cas craved giving it to him.

Sliding down the bed to floor, Cas found the box of condoms and fumbled one free, half-numb fingers tearing at the packaging. Lifting himself on his knees, he caught Dean's eye, loved the relieved tears that limned Dean's eyes as he flopped back on the bed and thrust his hips up in supplication. Cas pulled the elastic of the panties down, freed Dean's dick from the wet fabric for the first time. It sprang up, thick, veined, damp, red. Dean leaked an adorable, helpless noise as Cas placed the condom over the head of his dick; the sound broke into a sob as Cas used his mouth to roll the condom down, down, down Dean's considerably length.

For most people, it would have been more cock than they could swallow.

Cas had a  _ lot _ of experience. 

Judging by the increasingly sweet, desperate sounds Dean leaked, he did  _ not  _ have a lot of experience, at least not with a guy who could deep throat 8 inches. The condom tasted gross, latex and rubber bitter on Cas' tongue, but he'd have swallowed much worse to bring Dean a fraction of the bliss Cas had experienced buried in that fine ass.

Speaking off...

Working blindly, Cas got another condom, slid it over his hand, and eased two fingers into Dean's loosened, lubed hole.

Dean sobbed.

As Cas' dick grew soft, the semen and lube coated condom heavy and flaccid against his thighs, Cas focused, and listened, and delighted in using his lips and fingers to drive Dean wild. A hand clawed at Cas' scalp, flailing and helpless, violent and tender, pushing and tugging, urging, urging, urging, but Cas set his own pace. His tongue laved Dean's length. His lips massaged and rubbed. His throat sucked. His fingers rubbed around Dean's rim, over his sensitive channel, along the nub of his prostate. His thumb massaged Dean's perineum. He brought his other hand to Dean's balls, massaging, shifting, rubbing. He lost himself in the rhythm of his work, the rhythm of Dean's body, the rhythm of the music that thrummed and pounded and crescendoed and faded as tracks came and went. He teased Dean to the edge, worshipped with mouth and fingers, then eased back. Dean cried, begged, tore at Cas’ hair, but ultimately did nothing to change their pace. Every wiggle, every twitch, every wept plea, spoke to Dean's all-consuming elation.

This was Cas' thanks, for a single night of the best sex of his life.

This was Cas' promise, of everything he could offer Dean if only he'd come back and give Cas...give the two of them together...another go.

After all the noise, all the filth, all the bliss, it was shocking to Cas how quiet Dean was when he finally came - when Cas finally  _ let  _ him come. Dean bit a noise into the blankets, his legs going limp and flopping to the sides, his hand caressing the curved line of Cas' forehead, cheek, chin, as the condom swelled turgid on Cas' tongue. Only then did Cas withdraw his fingers, remove his mouth, settle back on his heels, and admire.

The panties were ruined, stretched fabric clinging to Dean's crack and thigh. Dean was ruined, in the best possible way, stretched languid on Cas' bed, skin splotched red and white, flushed and drained, coated with sweat. Dean's face was slack, mouth agape, eyes wide and sightless. Idly, Cas reached down, removed his condom, tucked his dick back into his pants. He studied, he watched, he memorized, as he took the condom from his hand, from Dean’s dick, balled them all together and tossed them into the garbage can in the kitchen. A cold fear settled in the pit of his stomach, that he'd never see this again, never experience this again, and for a wild second he thought about retrieving his camera, but an unauthorized post-coital picture was utterly outside the bounds of their barely-negotiated liaison.

_ But maybe… _

_...maybe next time... _

_ Maybe... _

Cas stretched, working the kinks from his back - the only kinks he  _ ever  _ wanted to remove - and walked to the bathroom for a washcloth. They were both gross, and at least the water that dredged up from the depths of the New York municipal water supply was wonderfully cold on overheated flesh. He sponged himself off quickly, glanced back toward Dean, allowed himself a tender smile. Dean was slumped, lips spread in dopey delight, chest heaving with occasional gasps and what Cas thought was laughter. 

_...I wonder if he's thinking the same. _

_ I wonder if he's capable of thinking  _ anything _ yet. _

Chuckling, an idea coming to him, he crossed to Dean, handed him the cloth, then strode to the phone mounted on the kitchen wall. He dialed down to the bar. It took three tries before Samandriel answered, shouting "Hello?" into the receiver.

"It's Cas," he shouted back. The mattress springs shrieked as Dean started at the noise. Cas waved him back down, met his eye with a wink and a smile. "I've got a request."

"I can't spare a damn soul to bring mimosas upstairs," Samandriel shouted back. "Get your lazy ass down here. No one will care if you’re butt naked. Nothing we haven't seen before."

"Play number 16 from the jukebox. Maximum volume."

"Nunber 16?" asked Samandriel. “Seriously?”

"Yes. Now."  _ Before I can change my mind. God, this is a dumb idea. _

Grumbling, Samandriel took the receiver from his ear and shouted something to someone near him. "Give it five minutes," Samandriel promised, then hung up.

Smiling, humming, Cas crossed back to Dean. Poor guy had gotten so far as dropping the washcloth onto his chest and was lamely shifting it against his skin. Cas sat beside him, one ear tuned to the thumping from below, and sponged him off tenderly. 

"That was really fricken amazing," Dean mumbled. Cas hummed agreement, but he didn't have the words, couldn't risk the words. When the song played, maybe... Dean was too replete to protest, leaning back, eyes slipping shut as Cas ministered to him, cleaned him, stripped off the underwear, found a clean sheet to spread over him. Cas had a hand on his pants to remove them when the music jacked up and the sappy strains of Herman's Hermits filled the room.

Dean lifted his head, rolled his eyes, flopped back with a laugh. "The hell kinda drag show they puttin’ on down there?”

"Woke up this morning feelin' fine..."

“Fuckin’ bizarre lip sync ever."

"Had someone special on my mind," Cas picked up the melody line, voice low and gruff and a little off key. "Last night I met a new boy in my neighborhood..."

His cheeks flushed as Dean sat up abruptly, gaping at him.

"Something tells me I'm into something good," Cas offered, turning the line into a question.

Dean's cheeks went pink.

Cas' did too.

The song played on. They stared at each other, lost in naive love crooned out twenty years before. It was absurd, silly, innocent, strangely pure, strangely filthy... _ knew it couldn’t be just a one night stand _ ...and then the last strains faded out. Manic Monday started to play. Samandriel forgot to turn the volume down. And Cas dared to reach out his hand.

"Something tells me..." murmured Dean. He shook his head, not finishing the line, and flopped back onto Cas' bed. "I'm staying the night."

He took Cas’ hand and tugged him down onto the bed.

Relief made Cas light as a feather. "Ok," he said with benign happiness.

"And I'm testing the fucking shower you promised."

"Ok."

"And I don't have any plans for the weekend."

"Ok..."

"You fucking sap."

"You know you love it," Cas laughed, curling up beside Dean, and then freezing when he realized what he'd said. "I mean, uh...fuck, I...that's crazy, it's been like 4 hours since we met, and good sex is just good sex, and--"

Dean interrupted him with a kiss, daring, trusting, a beautiful glance of rough lips brushing rough lips. For the first time since he'd arrived in the City, Cas didn't feel the least glimmer of fear in kissing another man. Dean wasn’t a danger to him, and they weren’t in danger together.

"You're right, that's crazy," Dean murmured, so close their lips brushed with every word. "Fuck no, I’m not in love with you. But you know what's crazier?"

"What?" Cas asked, breathless, bizarrely disembodied yet utterly grounded by Dean's mouth against his and Dean's arm curling around his back and pulling them together.

"I think, given time...maybe I could be," Dean confessed.

Cas crashed their mouths together, licked against Dean's lips, kissed him sloppily, eagerly, thoroughly, until they broke apart gasping.

"Cause...something tell mes...I'm into something good," lilted Dean, gruff and tender.

"Next time, you're screaming my name," Cas burst out in a rush.

"That's the sweetest shit anyone has ever said to me," Dean laughed. "It's a promise. Castiel." Dean relished the name, eyes slipping shut with a blissful smile gracing his lips. They leaned in together, close, hot, sticky, Dean easing toward sleep despite the racket of the bar.

Cas hummed him Herman's Hermits, a lullaby, a promise, a glimmer of hope.

_ Maybe in the morning, I'll show him my garden... _

_...cause something tells me... _

_...he’s everything I’ve been dreaming of… _

_...and I'm into something good… _


End file.
